Pippa Little

The Horn Window

St. Bartholomew’s

Cold as a thumbnail
sky-bruised brimstone’s wing,
eggshell and stillborn skull-furl
lingerings of smoke, a spell
whispered, smudged,
tannic water marks, a tidal
retreat, layers revealed and left
behind, marshland, badland —
I kneel where the lepers knelt
at your hungry and thirsting surface
smeary high cirrus of the mind’s eye
swirl of grease with holy breath
and a life where we shall be loved again
bone meets bone and cools
deep inside the whale
I say my name